


Necessary Redefinitions

by nishizono



Series: Principles of Morality [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock calls Lestrade in the middle of the night for a chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Redefinitions

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Age disparity (Sherlock is 18, Lestrade is 32)

"Greg."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. It's just past two in the morning. He's not surprised that Sherlock is still awake, but he _is_ surprised that Sherlock is calling him so late. He props himself up on his pillows and asks, "Everything all right?"

"You've been thinking about fucking me."

That's not even close to the response he'd expected, but Lestrade isn't complaining. Sherlock sounds drowsy, the way he always does after an orgasm, and Lestrade can just imagine him sprawled on the couch, probably in nothing but an unbuttoned shirt and underwear, maybe with come still drying on his belly. Or maybe he's still hard; maybe he's hard and touching himself, though his voice sounds too steady for that.

"More specifically, you've been thinking about fucking me without a condom."

Lestrade's prick gives a guilty twitch, but he refuses to talk about this at two in the morning (or ever, if he can get away with it), so he clears his throat and grumbles, "Actually, I've been sleeping."

Sherlock snorts.

"Couldn't this have waited until tomorrow?" asks Lestrade.

"It is tomorrow," says Sherlock. There's a rustling of sheets and oh, maybe he's not on the couch after all. The image of him in bed is more exciting than it should be. Lestrade's pulse quickens, and god, this is ridiculous. A skinny little eighteen year old shouldn't be able to make him feel this way. Sherlock hums into the phone like he can read Lestrade's mind and asks, "How many times have you rehearsed what you'll say to me when you tell me we should get tested?"

"None," says Lestrade, and it's true. He hasn't let himself get that far because it's safer if the whole thing stays pure fantasy. He knows he has to give Sherlock _something_ , though, so he adds, "But I've thought about doing it-- fucking you bare, I mean."

"I know," says Sherlock. "You think about it when you finger me. That's one of the reasons you like doing it. It's the only way you can feel around inside me without a condom."

Lestrade lets out a shaky exhalation and leans his head against the wall. He already knows where this is headed, but he hasn't given up the ridiculous hope that someday, he'll be able to show some restraint.

"I've been thinking about it too," says Sherlock like he's confessing a secret. "I've been thinking about how it would start. You'd want me to suck your cock while you finger me. Is it because you can you feel me squeezing your fingers while I blow you? Can you feel how much it turns me on?"

"Christ," says Lestrade. Sherlock has never been quiet, but he's also never been filthy, and Lestrade wonders where he picked it up. The idea that someone else has been saying these things to Sherlock makes him feel sick. "Who taught you to talk that way?"

Sherlock's laughter is slow and soft, maybe a little teasing. "You're jealous."

Lestrade doesn't say anything. His silence is answer enough.

"Just because I was a virgin--"

"Please don't remind me," groans Lestrade, because even though it had felt brilliant at the time, taking Sherlock's virginity is one of those things he's not proud of.

"Just because I was a virgin doesn't mean I was naive. You can't honestly be surprised that I can string together a dirty sentence or two. I _am_ eighteen, you know."

"Exactly," says Lestrade, and all right, he'll concede that if it was any other teenager, he wouldn't have given it a second thought. But Sherlock isn't a normal teenager.

"I know you wish I was innocent, but I'm not."

 _But you should be_ , thinks Lestrade, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that won't make him sound like a pervert. He doesn't know how to explain that his desire for Sherlock to stay as pure as possible has nothing to do with sex. He doesn't know how to tell a boy like Sherlock Holmes that it's for his own good.

"You're over-analyzing again." Sherlock sighs. "Go back to sleep, Greg."

"Wait," says Lestrade. Someday, he thinks, this war between his morals and his libido is going to kill him. For now, though, he only cares about making Sherlock happy, so he drops his voice and says, "You never finished telling me how much sucking my cock turns you on."

"You ruined the mood by trying to be noble."

Lestrade can't help but chuckle. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

There's a long pause before Sherlock says, "Tell me I'm brilliant."

"You already know you are," says Lestrade, amused. He loves this about their relationship, fledgling though it may be; he loves the easiness of their interactions and the way he can charm Sherlock when no one else can. He wonders if that means something, although he knows it's foolish to hope so.

"Say it anyway."

"You're brilliant," says Lestrade, and he means it. Sherlock is the most intelligent person he knows, which is saying quite a bit since he's been privileged to work with some of the brightest minds in Scotland Yard.

On the other end of the line, Sherlock gives a pleased hum and says, "Tell me again."

"You're a bloody egomaniac." Lestrade laughs, then lowers his voice and adds, "But you are brilliant. At everything, really... police work, deduction..."

"Sex?"

"Especially sex."

"Only when I'm having it with you," purrs Sherlock.

"I'd better be the only one you're having it with."

Sherlock's quiet moan sizzles through Lestrade, making his hair stand on end. "God, you are. How could I even want it with anyone else when it's already so brilliant with you?"

"What's your favorite part of it?" asks Lestrade. He slides a hand underneath the blanket and palms himself through his pants, then tugs them down and wraps his fingers around his hardening prick.

"All of it," says Sherlock. His voice has gone breathy, and Lestrade wonders what he's doing; he wonders whether Sherlock is just lying there or if he's touching himself.

"You can do better than that," says Lestrade. He should probably know better than to encourage Sherlock, but he's mostly hard and he's curious to know where their earlier conversation would have gone if he hadn't interrupted.

"Your cock," whispers Sherlock. "I love your cock. I love the way it feels in my hand, the way it tastes, how big it is inside me..."

It's sad, Lestrade thinks, that what turns him on the most isn't that Sherlock is talking about his cock, it's that Sherlock is using the word 'love' so freely. That's just further proof that something is wrong with him, because apparently it's not enough that he's got an eighteen year old moaning in his ear. He wants more; he wants it all. That would be a dangerous thing to feel for anyone Sherlock's age, but it's particularly dangerous when it's Sherlock Holmes he's pining after.

"I'd want to suck your cock first," says Sherlock, his voice uneven.

"Are you touching yourself?" asks Lestrade. "I am. I'm in my bed with my dick out at two in the fucking morning because you can't keep your mouth shut."

Sherlock gasps and then whimpers into the phone. Lestrade's imagination runs wild with images of Sherlock fisting his cock, rubbing at his nipples or even sucking on his fingers, but nothing prepares him for the shock that jolts through him when Sherlock moans, "God, Greg, I've got three fingers inside. I'm thinking about your tongue in my arse."

Lestrade thinks Sherlock might actually be trying to kill him.

"You like that, don't you? Being fucked open by my tongue? You can't get enough of it, can you?" Lestrade growls, and Jesus, he sounds ridiculous, but Sherlock has always been able to get him talking, both in bed and out of it. His cock is leaking so much precome his fingers are wet with it, and he spreads his legs a little so he can dig his heels into the mattress and push up into his hand. He wonders what it is about Sherlock that makes him feel like a horny teenager.

"I like your cock better," says Sherlock. "Every time you fuck me, I wonder what it would be like to feel you come inside me."

Lestrade's breath catches, and the only thing that keeps him from coming right that second is squeezing his balls hard enough to make himself wince. His voice is ragged when he says, "You know we can't."

"Yes we can," moans Sherlock, and fuck, he sounds like he's begging for it. "We both want it, Greg-- god, I want it so much."

There are a thousand things Lestrade could say, things like 'you're too young' and 'it's never going to happen,' but what comes out instead is, "I'd want you on your back with your legs up. I'd want to watch it happen. I'd want to watch my prick slide in, nice and slow, and watch you squeeze around me."

"Fuck," breathes Sherlock. He sounds choked and out of breath, and god damn it, Lestrade would give _anything_ to know what he looks like right now. "God, I want you to fuck me," moans Sherlock. "I want you to fill me up until I'm dripping so I can shove your head between my legs and make you lick the come out of my arse."

And Jesus Christ, that's it. When Sherlock sobs, "I'm coming," Lestrade's dick jerks, and he comes so hard his _teeth_ ache. He drops his phone and grabs at the sheets, and there's come everywhere, all over his chest and his belly, and even some on his pillowcase. In his orgasm-addled brain he thinks god, what a waste, because it could be Sherlock's arse he's filling.

By the time he's recovered enough to locate his phone and put it back to his ear, Sherlock is panting, "God... christ, Greg." He sounds wrecked, and he probably looks it too: hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, the way he always does right after he comes, when his mind has shut off and he has a few minutes of peace.

Lestrade feels a rush of affection so overwhelming it makes his stomach hurt, and he presses his palm against his belly. He hasn't felt like this for anyone in ages, and yeah, all right, he's been trying to ignore it, but he'd known all along it was hopeless. Sherlock isn't the type of person you feel ambivalence for. Lestrade will never say that out loud, though, so he clears his throat and rasps, "Come over."

"Am I your boyfriend?" asks Sherlock.

The question catches Lestrade off guard, and for almost a full minute, he has no idea how to respond. He knows what he _should_ say, and he knows what he _wants_ to say, but what he _actually_ says is, "Bring a change of clothes so we can have brunch."

Sherlock just chuckles and says, "I thought so," and damn him, _damn him_ , he's right.


End file.
